


Haggis and Homicide

by PhrancesP



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhrancesP/pseuds/PhrancesP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I imagined that this story could have taken place between seasons 1 and 2 of MFMM.  Phryne and Jack investigate the death of a musician who was murdered at a gala event. Jack and Phryne waltz together, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Background

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Kerry Greenwood for creating Miss Fisher and her mysteries, and thank you to Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries for bringing the characters to life. I have never been to Scotland, and I briefly lived in Melbourne as a preschooler, so I am sure that I have made many mistakes in my setting. You may find some of my brief references to poems by Robert Burns. I had fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Chapter 1: The Background

(December 1927)

Three men rode into a small, dusty town towards the end of a long day. The first two riders went into the pub, and the third went into the general store, saying that he would meet them at the pub. Inside the store the shopkeeper, who was also the postmistress, greeted him. “Hello, Laddie – I’ve got something for you here.” He took off his broad-brimmed hat and they both laughed. “I’ve fooled you again, Mrs. Jones. It’s your old Sandy Ogilvie. Laddie’s gone on to the pub with Hal. I’ll take his post to him. “ Mrs. Jones, still laughing, said, “Two peas in a pod, you and Laddie. Here you go – looks important.” Sandy looked down at the battered envelope, addressed to Robert Bruce Hamilton, Esq. in formal black ink. “Nothing for me, then?” She patted his shoulder. “Not this time, my boy.”

Sandy walked into the pub to find Laddie at the bar alone. “Where’s Hal?” Laddie smirked over his drink. “Hal stepped upstairs with the barmaid. She thought she saw a spider under her bed.” Sandy laughed. “Meaning we’ll have to pour our own whiskey, eh?” He tossed the letter on the bar as he walked around to get his drink. “Here’s something for the Laird.” Laddie rolled his eyes. “My old man was the Laird. He would roll over in his grave if he could see me now, out here chasing cattle.” Sandy raised his glass of whiskey and said, “Then here’s to your brother’s health, aye?” Laddie and Sandy both turned quickly as the door to the pub slammed open. “There’s a fence down at the northeastern corner – you’re needed!” Sandy and Laddie both reached for their hats and gulped down their drinks. “Lucky Hal – we’ll be back in an hour and he will still be looking for that spider,” joked Sandy. Laddie grinned back and swept his unopened letter into his coat pocket. As Laddie pulled on his gloves the light over the pub counter showed a gold signet ring on his hand. Sandy laughed. “Good boy, keep that aristocratic skin clean.”

Later that evening, after the fence along the ravine had been fixed and the roaming cattle rounded up and secured, Laddie and Sandy sat by a firepit in front of a small shack, drinking from their flasks. The moon was hidden behind clouds and the night air was cold. Laddie wrapped a dirty green and black plaid saddle blanket around his shoulders and rolled onto his side. “Wake me in an hour and I’ll take watch.” Sandy sat and watched the fire until he heard Laddie’s muffled snores. He looked over at his friend sleeping and saw a corner of white paper sticking out of his coat pocket. He smiled. “Letter for the Laird,” he thought. “No one writes to old Sandy anymore.” Sandy twitched the envelope out of the coat and looked at it in the firelight. To his surprise it had been opened. “Laddie must have read it while I was off finding firewood.” He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. “Dear Mr. Hamilton. We regret to inform you of the death of your elder brother, Andrew…” Sandy read through the letter and looked at the bank drafts and tickets in the envelope. He looked again at Laddie, wrapped up and sleeping deeply. “Not a care in the world, that one. Born golden, and happy every day of his life. Cares more about loose cattle than his own brother. And now he’s got a green castle, away from this dust and heat. And what about puir auld Sandy? Where’s my golden ticket?”

The two men stayed by the firepit through the night, one sitting and watching the sky, and the other lying very still, wrapped in the plaid blanket. When a faint orange color started to show on the horizon, the first man reached over his friend, and carefully, as if tending to the other’s wound, wrapped a white handkerchief around his hand, covering the large gold signet ring. The man in the blanket did not react, or wake up to see that his friend now held a small hatchet in the other hand. With a swift stroke he brought the hatchet down onto the handkerchief. A few drops of blood appeared, but not much. He hoisted the blanketed man over his shoulder and walked to the edge of the ravine. There he unrolled the blanket, slipped a battered leather wallet into the man’s coat pocket, and gave one firm push with his foot, over the edge. Clutching the green and black blanket, he returned to the firepit. With the whiskey left in his own flask he washed his hands, his hatchet, and a gold signet ring. He put on his coat, drying his hands on the lining, and then folded the papers with care. At the fence he worked quickly, fixing his own saddle and pack to the other’s horse. Both horses sensed his anxious mood, smelling the blood on him and and shying away, but he grabbed the stallion’s bridle firmly and mounted him with bravado. His own horse, aware of the unfamiliar saddle, with its smell of the other man, fidgeted uneasily. “Go on, then, Elss. You’re on your own now.” She obeyed his command and walked away from the shack, and he turned away, towards towards the distant port and its waiting steamship.


	2. The Foreground

Chapter 2: The Foreground (December 30, 1928)

Miss Fisher, or the Honorable Phryne Fisher, as she was known in some circles, was visiting her aunt Prudence Stanley at her spacious home. Aunt Prudence had asked for her help with yet another grand gala event, in this case to raise money for the development of a public golf course to be built in Melbourne. The late Mr. Stanley had been an avid golfer who had been known to wear a violent red and black plaid vest, plus fours and tam-o-shanter on his rounds as a well-meant nod to Scotland, the birthplace of the “royal and ancient game.” Aunt Prudence had decided to invite members of his country club to the gala, which was to be held on January 25th, the birthday of the poet Robert Burns, and an occasion for celebration in itself. Phryne had been summoned to help her go over the club archives for likely targets. The dining table was covered with albums containing photos and newspaper articles about illustrious members. She smiled fondly at her aunt as she steamed through the dining room in the manner of an ocean liner. “We shall leave no stone unturned, Phryne,” she said. “I just know there are club members sitting on pots of money, too stingy to spend it on anything but new golf balls and cigars. I’ll find them, and we’ll see if they can say no to ME.” Phryne doubted there were many who could – she found it difficult herself. And, here she was, at her aunt’s service. “Here’s to crime,” she thought, as she pulled another album across the table.

Phryne yawned as she turned the pages of an album marked “1920,” hoping that Aunt Prudence would read her mind and call for more coffee. She had been lethargic and exhausted since her birthday party over a week ago. Of course, her party had come after a frightening and emotional experience. She had thought she would be able to sleep by now – she had seen the murderous Murdoch Foyle locked away with her own eyes, and her sister Janey, one of his victims, had been laid to rest at long last. But, her dreams were restless and her days too long. Phryne’s lazy eyes focused, slowly but surely, onto a photograph of a handsome young man in golfing togs, about 18 years old, holding a trophy cup. The light in the photograph made the young man appear to glow, and his smile was unguarded and carefree. Next to him on one side was a much older man, also in golf clothes, whose hand rested with his fingers curled protectively around the young golfer’s shoulder. On the other side, slightly apart, stood an older version of the young golfer, wearing somber street clothes and a topcoat. The caption read: “Robert B. Hamilton, known to all his friends as Laddie, wins his first club championship. George Hamilton, his proud father, was his caddie. Also pictured is George’s elder son, Andrew.” Phryne put her finger on the photo of the golden boy in the middle, murmuring “Not a care in the world, that one.”

Aunt Prudence bustled in just then, and Phryne pointed to the photograph in the album. “What about this lot, Aunt Prudence? They look likely enough.” Her aunt looked over her shoulder and harrumphed. “George Hamilton, indeed. Why these Scots won’t use their proper titles here, I’ll never know. Phryne, those Hamiltons are nobility in their own right! If I’m not mistaken, George Hamilton’s uncle James is the Duke. George grew up in Edinburgh, and London, of course, but he was something of a black sheep, you know, and his family thought Australia would do him good.” Phryne perked up. Black sheep were her specialty, and it was nice to know that she was not the only member of a noble family to run away from that cold, damp part of the world. Prudence rattled on. “Such a shame about those boys. Laddie failed his first year at university and ran off without a word to his father. His mother was a lovely girl – Swiss, I think, on a world tour – George met her on the way out, and they were happy, I suppose. She’s been gone for years, of course. No family here. His father never got over Laddie, though – no word from the boy, although some say he went off to rope cattle. Young people are so full of nonsense! I believe poor George died of a broken heart. Andrew was a banker downtown, I believe, but has never married. I haven’t seen him at the club for years, of course. Not a golfer. Still, I suppose we should invite him. Now, what did I read – last year, was it? Hamilton, Hamilton? An accident? No, surely not. Such a common name.”

Phryne had lost interest in Andrew Hamilton. Unmarried was all very well, but this one looked like he had swallowed something unpleasant. Phryne preferred smiles on her young men. “Pity about Laddie,” she thought. “He had potential.” She gathered her hat and kissed Aunt Prudence. On her way out the door she called over her shoulder, “Send along an extra invitation for Dot, will you? Her constable’s birthday is coming up, and I am sure she would enjoy treating him to a gala evening.” Aunt Prudence rolled her eyes, but she pulled her list towards her to write “Miss Dorothy Williams and Mr. Hugh Collins” underneath the previous entry: “Mr. Andrew Hamilton.” Phryne reached her beloved red Hispano-Suiza and slammed the door after herself. As she started the engine she realized with a grimace that Aunt Prudence expected to see her again, the following night, for New Year’s Eve. “Auld lang syne,” thought Phryne. “I’ll need more than one “cup o’ kindness” to survive tomorrow night!”


	3. The Rehearsal

Chapter 3: The Rehearsal

 

                  It was the night before the Golf Gala at the Melbourne Golf and Country Club. January 24th, and the weather was clear and dry.  Inside the ballroom there was a group of musicians setting up their instruments. Mrs. Stanley would not permit the chaos of an impromptu gathering, so a rehearsal was in order. Just an hour ago Aunt Prudence had received a message that she was urgently needed at home to care for her son Alfred. She had promptly telephoned Phryne and demanded her presence at the dress rehearsal.  “I know it’s a lot to ask at the last moment, but I am sure that you are not doing anything too important, and I know from experience that you can get to the club quite quickly in that automobile of yours.” Phryne had smiled to herself at that. She loved being called out for emergencies, and life had been rather dull of late.  For that she blamed Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, of the Melbourne City South Police.  If he had not been so efficient, so good at preventing crimes, surely there would have been a murder or two to solve over the last few weeks?  It was what they did best together, but it was difficult, if not impossible, or immoral, to arrange a murder… Phryne assured her aunt that she would be at the club in a flash, and she was.

 

                  Phryne arrived at the club as the musicians began their first number, a rousing Highland reel. She gritted her teeth a bit at first at the sound of the bagpipes, but soon enough her toes were tapping and itching to dance.  The song faded away and Phryne clapped her hands in delight.  Suddenly the door to the ballroom swung open and a small group entered. She saw the club manager leading the way and speaking over his shoulder to a tall, sandy-haired man with a slim, elegant dark-haired woman on his arm.  Phryne caught her breath in surprise.  “Was that Diana?  Diana McGillivray?” But, then the other woman turned her face up to her companion, and Phryne relaxed.   “No, of course not.  Diana is in London.  I know that. Busy with babies and spaniels. Breeding!”  The club manager had reached Phryne.  His eyes begged for her help.  “Sir, this is Miss Fisher, erm… may I present the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher? Miss Fisher, this is Sir Robert, Lord Robert, I mean, Lord Robert, Duke of Hamilton…”  The club manager gasped for air, and Phryne came to the rescue.  “Welcome to Melbourne.”  She smiled and extended her hand, every inch the queen of her hometown. Lord Hamilton smiled in return and said, “It’s wonderful to be back in Australia.  Please, call me Robert.  I can’t stand on ceremony here.”  He turned to the woman at his side.  “This is my fiancee, Miss Jeannette Kirkland.  I believe you are acquainted with her family?”  Phryne smiled again, warmly, and said, “You won’t remember me, of course.  You’re so young. Your sister Diana and I were thick as thieves when we were your age.” Miss Kirkland smiled uncertainly and gratefully, and said “Miss Fisher, of course.”  Phryne had a sudden inspiration.  “Of course, it’s such late notice, but you must both join us for the gala tomorrow night!”  Miss Kirkland looked up at Mr. Hamilton, and he answered smoothly for both of them. “We would be delighted.” Phryne smiled again, and thought “Well, that’s a feather in Aunt Prudence’s cap.  The golden golfer returns! She will be so pleased – a Duke, even if he is only a Scottish one!”

 

                  The club manager was so relieved to have passed his unexpected guests along to Miss Fisher that he signaled to a waiter for champagne with one hand, and to the bandleader for music with the other.  Phryne suggested that they move to a table far enough away from the musicians for conversation.  There she learned that Robert Hamilton had spent the recent year in Scotland learning his new responsibilities as the Duke, following the sad death of his brother Andrew in a hunting accident.  He had had the great fortune to meet his fiancee in Edinburgh in June, and they had come to Melbourne with Miss Kirkland’s father, a wealthy industrialist who had his eye on expanding his trade to Australia.  Miss Kirkland was quiet and kept her eyes fixed adoringly on her beloved. The champagne flowed, and the musicians kept up a steady beat.  Before long Mr. Hamilton said, “I can’t keep my feet still!  Come on, Jeannie – dance with me!”  Miss Kirkland’s face lit up in a smile, and she took his hand.   Phryne watched the candlelight shimmer on his gold signet ring as he pulled the laughing girl out of her seat with a gallant bow.

 

                  Phryne smiled at the pair, alone on the dance floor, whirling around.  She longed to dance, too, but where was her partner? She twirled her champagne flute and stared at the bubbles floating through the golden liquid.  Her thoughts floated away over the wail of the pipes. “Where was he? Jack.  Why hadn’t he come by for a nightcap?”  She rolled her eyes as she remembered her last few evenings, sitting alone in her parlor with her checkerboard, her whiskey decanter and two cut glass tumblers, waiting. Dot had seen him at the station just today when she brought a basket of fresh scones to Hugh as an early birthday present. Phryne had been too proud to ask after Inspector Robinson, though. She raised her glass in mock salute to her own folly, and drained the champagne.  With a saucy wink, she grabbed the hand of a more-than-willing waiter, and twirled him with her onto the dance floor.

 

                  At last the rehearsal was over, and the bandleader approached the table where Phryne sat with Mr. Hamilton and Miss Kirkland.  Phryne recalled Aunt Prudence’s direction to pay the musicians for the rehearsal, and she reached down under her chair for her evening bag.  When she turned back to the bandleader, she was shocked to see the enraged expression frozen on his face.  He was looking directly at Mr. Hamilton, who was deep in whispered conversation with Miss Kirkland, and completely unaware of his scrutiny. Without knowing why, Phryne stood slowly and stepped away from the table.  Her movement was enough.  The bandleader’s gaze broke away from Mr. Hamilton, and he turned his back on the table. He snatched the money from Phryne’s hand and stalked back towards the musicians onstage.  “Well!” she thought.  “He’s rude, but the music was die for, so I won’t tell Aunt Pru. What does he have against Mr. Hamilton? Maybe the bandleader fancies our Miss Kirkland!”  Phryne giggled to herself at the thought, and swept out of the ballroom to her trusty Hispano-Suiza, and her even trustier driver, Cecil Yates.


	4. The Letter

Chapter 4: The Letter

 

                  Inspector Jack Robinson sat behind his desk looking with disgust at the gouge in the wood surface that he had just made with his letter opener.   “It’s not even my desk to destroy,” he thought glumly. His files lay open on his desk in disarray.  He could not seem to finish his paperwork these days.  Each night he folded up the files and stacked them up neatly on the corner of his desk, determined to finish the work the next day.  And, each day he sat here, fiddling with the letter opener, thinking of Phryne.  “Miss Fisher,” he corrected himself firmly.  He suddenly realized that he was no longer alone in his office.  Hugh Collins, his trusty constable, was standing by his desk with his jaw dropping slightly.  “Er, no sir. Not Miss Fisher. Just me, here, Hugh. Constable Collins, sir. Although I could ring her, if that’s what you meant?”  Jack Robinson closed his eyes and brushed his hand wearily over his jaw.  “No, thank you, Collins.  No need.  What is it? As you can see, I’m quite busy.”  Hugh coughed to cover his own embarrassment. Those particular files had been on the Inspector’s desk for a week. “Well, sir.  There’s a bloke, erm, gentleman here from the Melbourne Golf and Country Club, who says he’s found a threatening letter.  Shall I send him in?”  Jack stood up and buttoned his suit jacket, his armor.  “Yes, Collins.  Let’s see what we can do for him.”

 

                  Mr. Wayne, the manager of the club, entered Jack’s office and brought with him a sense of impending doom.  He handed Jack a letter and sat down heavily in the visitor chair.  Jack read, “You’re no Laddie and Elsie knows it. Meet me backstage after the opening reel, my Sandy old friend, and make it worth my while to stay quiet.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.  “Where did you find this letter, Mr. Wayne?  Can you tell me anything more about it?”  Mr. Wayne blew out the breath that he had been holding. He was always so grateful to find someone else to take on his problems.  “Inspector, one of our housemaids found it in the bedroom of one of our guests.  It was under the pillow, and she disturbed it when she went to make the bed.  I suppose she should not have read it…” he trailed off. Jack nodded and pursed his lips. “Why,” he thought, “do people bring me these problems without thinking first?  This is hardly threatening.  Some tiff between friends, over a girl no doubt.” Mr. Wayne rushed on, fearing the Inspector’s silence, “Sir, I would not like to trouble you, but it was the bedroom of our most important guest.  A Lord, sir, real noble.  From Scotland. “ Mr. Wayne looked at the notes he had written for himself:  “Robert Bruce Hamilton, the Duke of Hamilton, sir.”  And, then, still gushing and anxious to be heard, and helped: “Sir, I heard his lady, Miss Kirkland, that is, call him Laddie.  Mr. Hamilton, Laddie, she called him. So the threat could be to him. To Laddie.”  Jack read the note again.  “The “opening reel,” he murmured.  “Oh, sir, that’s the gala.  Tonight. The Golf Gala.” And, finally, unknowingly, Mr. Wayne said the magic words.  “Mrs. Stanley’s gala. Miss Fisher was so kind to offer her help…” Jack pushed back his chair, more quickly than he meant to, for it made a horrible screech that made Mr. Wayne jump. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. You’ve done the right thing, letting us know.  We’ll take it from here.”


	5. The Gala

Chapter 5: The Gala

 

                  Inspector Jack Robinson looked down at his own hairy knees in disgust.  He could not believe that he was here, at this pretentious party, wearing this ridiculous kilt, just to keep some privileged Scot from harm. He had pulled the kilt from a trunk in his bedroom.  Well, his storeroom. He never slept in the bedroom any more. The room that he had shared so long ago with Rosie, so recently his ex-wife, had become a storage room. He preferred to sleep, when he could, on the long sofa in his study, where his books kept him company. He adjusted the bow tie that he wore above a crisp white shirt.  His jacket was black, but his tie and cummerbund were navy and dark green to match the dark colors of the tartan.  He thought of his grandfather, his mother’s father, whose kilt it had been, and thought of the oaths he would have uttered if Jack had chosen to wear trousers to Rabbie Burns’ birthday. Jack shook off thoughts of the past - “wool-gathering,” he muttered – and turned to the job at hand. He was an officer undercover tonight, and the kilt was protective coloring.  He straightened his shoulders.

 

                  Jack scanned the crowd for Hugh Collins.  His constable had been disappointed to be pulled into service tonight.  Jack knew that Dot, Miss Fisher’s companion, had invited Hugh to the gala as her escort.  Hugh had sternly explained to Dot that, while he would be there to see her in her pretty new dress, duty came first.  Therefore, Hugh Collins was here, somewhere, dressed as a waiter.  Jack smirked.  He hoped that Dot had taught Hugh how to carry a tray at some point during the afternoon, and that Hugh had followed through on Jack’s suggestion that flowers would be a nice apology. 

 

                  As Jack searched the crowd he became aware of activity at the door of the ballroom. The club butler announced “Mrs. Stanley, chairwoman of tonight’s gala, and the Honorable Miss Fisher.” Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. “She is here,” he thought. Of course, he had known that she would be here, but just hearing her name announced made his collar feel tight. Phryne entered the room by stepping out of a full-length black fur coat and into a spotlight. He could see that she was dressed severely; a straight black gown, velvet, he thought, with a high, horizontal neckline that grazed her collarbones.  The sleeves were long and tight, and the gown dipped straight to the floor with no ornamentation.  Her ruby and jet earrings dangled down below her cropped hair.  Her lips were dark red and her eyebrows were dark slashes over her eyes. He smiled.   “How unlike her,” he thought, “to be so conventional, so conservative, so covered. Nothing like the lethal dresses I’ve seen before.”  Feeling better, somehow, he decided to sneak a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “No one but Hugh knows I’m on duty…”

 

                 Mrs. Stanley, although enthusiastic about golf and Scotland in theory, had refused, after all, to open the gala event with an undignified, athletic reel. The musicians had been notified; the ball would start with a long, slow waltz.  Jack heard the musicians warming up their instruments. He thought, suddenly, “I’d better warn her.  She doesn’t know I’m here. She could give away my cover.” He pushed deliberately through the crowd towards the shining black cap of hair that he would know anywhere, any time.  He found himself close to her, but not close enough.  A tall, sandy-haired man blocked his way, so Jack moved around to approach from behind her. Suddenly the path to Miss Fisher opened up, and Jack froze at the sight before him.  Her black velvet gown, which covered every inch of her in front, was very different in back.  Dark red satin ribbon laces criss-crossed her back, exposing her creamy skin from her shoulders all the way down to her hips.  Jack looked at her neck, her spine, her ribs, her shoulder blades. The bones of her body. Her skin.   He could not look away.  He could hear the waltz beginning, but the blood was pounding in his head. As if watching a stranger, he lowered his gaze and watched his own index finger hook under a red satin lace, carefully, just to feel what her skin …Thump!


	6. The Waltz

Chapter 6: The Waltz

 

                  Phryne looked up at Robert Hamilton, Laddie to his friends, he assured her, and devoted half of one ear to his monologue about some golf course in Scotland, St. Andrew’s or something.  She was already bored to tears.  Nothing was fun anymore without Jack.  She found herself idly imagining that Laddie would keel over, dead, and then Jack would have to come to the gala, to see her, in this lethal dress.  He would ask for her help, she knew, even if he didn’t want to… Phryne felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise.  Her pulse quickened.  Her breath came quickly.  The laces on her dress… Something had changed, just now, but what? She took a step back from Laddie Hamilton and – Thump!  “Oh, Jack! I’m so sorry!  Darling! Did I hurt you?”  She turned rapidly and grasped his upper arm, feeling his strength as he steadied her at the waist.  Her legs were entangled in her tight skirt, and she could not stand without his support. “Our dance, I believe, Miss Fisher,” he smiled, and she laughed with joy because she was already there, in his arms, ready for him. Without another thought for Laddie Hamilton, Phryne slipped her hand into Jack’s warm grasp and followed him onto the dance floor for their first waltz, together.

 

                  Jack’s world came back into sharp focus when Phryne whirled around and stepped heavily on his foot. Thump!  His arms were suddenly full of her, and she was not moving away from him. To his horror he realized that all of his fingers were entangled in the laces of her gown. How had that happened? He had only meant to touch one lace, lightly.  As smoothly as he could, he removed his hands, reveling in the softness of her skin.  He smiled, too, and carefully filed the word “Darling” away in his mind for review at another, quieter time. “Our dance, I believe, Miss Fisher.” He grasped her hand in his and turned for the dance floor, striding through the crowd like a lion with his mate, feeling the blood of his ancestors with every note of the pipes.

 

                  They came together easily, into the traditional pose.  The waltz - once upon a time it was a forbidden dance in polite society. Phryne rested her left hand lightly, correctly, on his shoulder, and placed her other hand in his left. He, hardly believing it was real, placed his own right hand on her back, just enough to guide her as they whirled through the familiar steps. “Gloves,” he thought.  “Was I supposed to wear gloves with this get-up? There were no gloves packed in with the kilt!” With an inward smile he decided that he didn’t care what these people thought of him.  Let society stare at his hands, pressing her skin above the laces of her gown, with his fingers just slightly crooked underneath, claiming her.  He didn’t need to look down to know that Phryne’s skirt was made for dancing, cut daringly high on the outside of each leg. He sensed, rather than saw, the flash of gold at the top of her stocking, and smiled, knowingly. He had seen that knife, knew the secret sheath where she kept it.  Jack’s woman was bold and courageous.  He lifted his head proudly.

 

                  Phryne felt Jack’s strong hand on her back, and felt her spine tingle at his touch. She hitched her left arm up his shoulder until she could almost reach his ear.  Then she raised her eyes up, following the line of his buttons to his bow tie and the faint bristles on his chin, to his mouth. Her dress felt too tight, too confining, for the deep breath she needed as she watched his lips curve into a soft smile.  Her eyes traveled still further up to meet his, watching her.  Phryne felt Jack’s fingers spread across her bare back, across her ribbons, as he drew her in closer. She thought she heard him murmur “a red, red rose” above the top of her head.  She blew a soft breath out towards his ear, and he instinctively leaned down towards her dark red lips.  “Be careful, Inspector.  If you touch that knot, just there, I’ll come undone.”  Jack stumbled at that, but he untangled his hand and rested it as calmly as he could on the small of her back, in the proper position. They were silent again, and the music washed around them in waves. Phryne stored the image of his blush away for later.

 

                  “Jack, I have to thank you from the bottom of my heart.”  He jumped at her words.  He had been wool-gathering again – imagining them together, heart to heart as they were at this moment, on the long, narrow sofa in his study. He had just about concluded that it would be a tight fit when she startled him by saying his name. Had he spoken his inner truth aloud, again? He cleared his throat.  “Always happy to be of service, Miss Fisher. May I ask how I have assisted you this time?” She grinned.  It was time to snap him out of his dreams and back into her orbit. “Well, Inspector,” she whispered, “the ladies of Melbourne will have no reason to criticize my gown, or lack thereof, when there is so much of you to be seen.” Jack rolled his eyes. The kilt.  His knees.  He had forgotten. Of course, she would not let his attire pass by without comment. He answered stiffly, recalled to duty, “My mother was a Calhoun, Miss Fisher, and I am undercover.”  He hitched her closer yet, as if to regain control, and the motion seemed to squeeze another whisper from her.  “All of you, Inspector?” she breathed.  “I understood, on very good authority, that men in kilts did not require anything undercover.  But perhaps customs differ down under…” 

 

                  Jack resigned himself to the knowledge that silence was his only weapon in this skirmish, and he twirled her one last time as the waltz came to an end. He would save his gunpowder for future battles.  Phryne grinned up at him as they walked companionably away from the dancers. “Jack, we must have a toast! We’ve just waltzed together through all of Melbourne society, and no one died of shock at your bare hands!” Before he could think of something witty to say, he heard a high-pitched scream.  “Laddie!  Help me! Dear God, he’s dead!”


	7. The Murder

Chapter 7: The Murder

 

                  Cursing, Jack recalled his reason for being there.  Where was Collins?  Jack pulled away from Phryne and pushed his way through the crowd towards the stage. Phryne, stopping only long enough to retrieve her knife (her pistol was, inconveniently, in her evening bag), followed in his path.  When Jack reached the stage he saw a young, dark-haired woman bent over a man in a tuxedo, who was lying on the ground.  “Laddie,” she wailed, again.  “Excuse me, miss. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of the Melbourne police.  Please move aside and let me see Mr. Hamilton.”  He reached forward to help her to her feet. Just then Phryne stepped underneath his arm.  “Hello, Jeannie. Who’s this?”  Jack turned and stared at Phryne.  “Jack, this is not Laddie Hamilton.  The Duke is wearing his own tartan, of course. Similar to yours, actually. Is that a baton?” Jack blinked and shook his head a bit. “Miss Fisher,” he said. “Please, let me ask the questions.” She pouted a bit at that, but nodded. Jeannette Kirkland, now standing, breathed a loud sigh of relief.  “Laddie, thank God you’re here.  This man, the music…” she gestured at the body, weakly.  The crowd parted again to show Laddie Hamilton and Aunt Prudence, shock and dismay written on their faces. And then, at last, Hugh Collins, pencil and paper in one hand, and a gun in the other, pushed through to his Inspector. “Sir, I’m sorry. I had to go back to the motor car for my gun, and there were so many people, and women with their dresses, and I couldn’t push them aside, of course…”  Jack sighed.  “Thank you, Collins. I think we will need the pencil and paper, but not the gun.  Mrs. Stanley, if you would be so kind as to make an announcement.  No one is to leave the ballroom until Constable Collins has taken down names and addresses.  The gala is over, and we must clear the area.”


	8. The Investigation

Chapter 8: The Investigation

 

                  At last the ballroom was empty of almost all of the guests.  There was a tablecloth covering the body.  The club manager had identified the man in the tuxedo as Hal Thorndike, the bandleader.  The other musicians described Hal as a loner, a former cattleman who had turned to music after being injured in a pub fight.  The fiddle player thought the fight had been over a bartender’s daughter, but couldn’t be sure.  The musicians agreed that he was not married and had never mentioned a family, but they had only known him for a few months.  One of them thought that Hal had turned away during the last few minutes of the waltz to speak to a man in a kilt.  He had not returned, but they had finished playing the familiar music without him. The ballroom had been too dark for them to see what had happened. Phryne had gone to see about some brandy for Aunt Prudence.  “See, Collins” said Jack, “he’s been stabbed in the throat, probably with a short knife. But, there’s no sign of the murder weapon.”  Hugh wrote “short knife” in his notebook.  Jack stood up from Thorndike’s body and put his hands in his pockets.  Or, at least he tried to, but he was wearing a kilt. He paced around Collins irritably, and Hugh thought, “He needs his hat and his coat to really get to work.” Hugh was always trying to learn more about his idol, and he looked closely at Jack’s traditional Scottish ensemble. “Sir, perhaps a short knife such as yours?” Jack stopped.  “Don’t be absurd, Collins.  I don’t carry a knife.”  Hugh stumbled along doggedly, “Well, sir, of course I know that you don’t normally carry a knife, but tonight you have one stuck in your sock.”  Hugh felt the stupidity of his own words, but his instinct told him that he was onto something.  Jack clapped him on the shoulder.  “By God, Collins. You’re right.   My skean dhu. Find Miss Fisher – we’ll need to talk to all of the kilt-wearing gentlemen here tonight.”

 


	9. The Chase

Chapter 9: The Chase

 

                  Jack leaned back in his desk chair and tossed his pen on his desk.  Phryne sat across from him, still dressed in her ball gown and completely wrapped in her black fur.  She was reading the threatening note that had been written to Laddie Hamilton. “You’re no Laddie and Elsie knows it. Meet me backstage after the opening reel, my Sandy old friend, and make it worth my while to stay quiet.” She chewed on her lower lip, and Jack leaned forward onto his desk, without knowing why.  “Jack, let’s assume that this note is true. Someone named Elsie knows something about Laddie Hamilton.  And, here, where it says “my Sandy old friend,” it’s the only place in the note where there is a mistake.  Laddie Hamilton has “sandy” hair, but why would the writer capitalize the word? I think we need to learn more about Laddie, and I know where to start.”  Jack blinked away the sight of Phryne, wrapped in fur as black as her hair, and stood up.  As he walked past her chair she reached out and caught his arm.  “Jack, there was something else, something between the bandleader and Laddie Hamilton, at the rehearsal.  I saw the way he looked at Laddie.  He knew him, and he hated him.”  She turned and looked up at him.  “Hal Thorndike wrote this note to Laddie Hamilton.  I’d bet my dagger on it.”

 

                  Phryne, refreshed by a change of clothes and energized by the new investigation, sped down Aunt Prudence’s driveway, and bounded up the steps to the front door. While she waited impatiently for her aunt to join her in the parlor, she tapped her foot restlessly on the polished wood floor.  At last Aunt Prudence bustled in, ready to discuss the drama of the Golf Gala.  “Well, Phryne, the best laid plans of mice and men…” “Yes, yes, ‘gang aft agley,’ but I don’t have time.  Aunt Pru, where are those club journals?  Do you still have them here?”  Her stunned aunt turned wordlessly to the bookshelf in the parlor, and Phryne ran to the shelves. She pulled out the familiar volume and quickly found the photo of the glowing, golden golfer, Laddie Hamilton. She forced herself to read the accompanying article slowly, and finally she came across something that she could use. Laddie Hamilton, when interviewed after winning his first championship, had told a story about the last hole in the round.  He had been leaning over to pull out his tee, after a beautiful drive, and his hand had slipped on the shaft of his driver.  Laddie had caught the handle of the driver in his mouth, and one of his back teeth had been knocked out.  He laughed it off in the interview, saying,  “No one will ever know how much I sacrificed to win this championship!”  Phryne closed the book and held it to her chest. “Aunt Prudence, I need to borrow this journal, and I need you to remind me – what was it that Laddie Hamilton did when he dropped out of university?  You said he broke his father’s heart, but where did he go?” With some new answers and an idea forming in her agile brain, Phryne drove, rather sedately, to the police station and to Jack.

 

                  Meanwhile the officers of City South had been busy interviewing the kilted gentlemen of the Golf Gala, with little success.  Each man had brought the small, single-edged knife that went along with the traditional ensemble, but none of the knives had any sign of blood or of recent use. Jack and Hugh had been through the entire invitation list.  Dot had brought a hearty lunch for Hugh, with a second lunch for Jack. As they ate she looked over the list. “So, Lord Hamilton was not invited to the Gala? He’s not here, on the list.” Jack rolled his eyes – how had they missed that?  “Collins, get Mr. Hamilton in here.  No. Better yet, get Mr. Hamilton’s valet in here first, and tell him to bring his kilt and everything that goes along with it. And, I mean everything.”


	10. The Confrontation

Chapter 10: The Confrontation

 

                  Phryne and Jack were sitting in his office, again, but this time the air was crackling with their energy.  They were close, very close, to the solution, but they would have to prove it.  Phryne had told Jack about Laddie, the young golfer with the broken tooth, who had run away from home to become a cattle roper. She told him about Andrew Hamilton, the young Duke, who had gone to Scotland and died there in a hunting accident. Aunt Prudence had remembered, at last, the obituary, and the announcement that Laddie Hamilton had sailed from Melbourne to take up his new responsibilities.  Phryne told Jack about how Laddie had returned to Australia, with his young heiress fiancee, and how she had impulsively invited them to the Golf Gala.  Then she told Jack, again, about the look on Hal Thorndike’s face when he saw “Laddie Hamilton,” his old friend from the cattle stations.

 

                  Jack had told Phryne about Hal Thorndike, who had been a cattle roper, but who had ended up as a musician and a bandleader, specializing in Highland music.  He had been able to track Thorndike’s movements back to the small town where he had worked.  Jack had spoken to Mrs. Jones, the town’s shopkeeper, postmistress and memory keeper. She had remembered Laddie Hamilton and Sandy Ogilvie, “two peas in a pod,” and Hal Thorndike, who had been run out of town by the pub owner, after finding him with his daughter. “Was his daughter named Elsie?” asked Jack.  Mrs. Jones laughed. “Elsie was Sandy’s horse, if I recall. That was a sad night. A big storm took out a fence, and Laddie and Sandy went to fix it.  The next day they found Sandy at the bottom of the ravine, and Elsie was wandering around town looking for him.  Laddie was gone, too.  Hal was still here, and he took Elsie with him when he left town.”

 

                  It was time to ask Laddie Hamilton a few questions, and Jack decided that he wanted to keep the upper hand in the confrontation by surprising him.  They paid a call on Mr. Hamilton in his hotel suite. Phryne slid the threatening note out onto the polished table.  “Mr. Hamilton,” she began quietly.  “We have followed up on this note, which was found under your pillow, and we have some rather personal questions to ask you.”  Laddie Hamilton nodded graciously.  “Do you have all of your teeth?”  He looked blankly at Phryne, and said, “Yes, of course.  But, what does that have to do with this unfortunate situation?” Phryne looked at Jack. He spoke next. “Mr. Hamilton, is this your skean dhu?” Laddie stiffened and his eyes turned towards his closet, briefly.  “Yes, that is mine.”  He reached for it, but Jack had already pulled it away.  Jack spoke again.  “Is your real name Sandy Ogilvie?”  Laddie pushed back his chair and stood abruptly.  “What is the meaning of this?  Is this some sort of joke?”  Hugh stepped forward, putting his notebook in his pocket, and placing a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Please sit down, sir, until we have finished questioning you.”  Laddie Hamilton’s shoulders slumped forward and his head fell into his hands.


	11. The Nightcap

Chapter 11: The Night Cap

 

                  Jeannie Kirkpatrick had been swept away from Melbourne, heavily veiled, by her protective father. Laddie Hamilton’s remains had been exhumed and identified by his dental records.  His noble relations in Scotland had been notified that it was time to find the next heir.  Hal Thorndike had been buried to the mournful sound of bagpipes.  Aunt Prudence had donated the funds from the Golf Gala to the new Hamilton Public Golf Course in Melbourne.  And, Sandy Ogilvie had confessed, both to his moment of desperation and jealousy in the dark countryside, and his impulsive decision to silence Hal before he could expose him.

 

                  Everything had been neatly wrapped up and tied in a bow in time for Hugh’s birthday, and Phryne had pulled out all the stops for a backyard barbeque in St. Kilda, complete with torches, iced drinks, and jazz music playing out of the open window. Jack arrived late, and Mr. Butler brought him a Scotch on the rocks and a plate piled high with steak and roasted vegetables.  Jack gave him his hat and overcoat in exchange, and sank back into his wide-planked wood rocking chair with a deep exhalation.   Phryne had not yet seen him, so he was able to watch her unobserved, where she stood in the light pouring from the house.  She was wearing loose, wide-legged white linen trousers and a bias-cut linen blouse in china blue, held onto her white shoulders by blue ribbons tied in bows. Her feet and her arms were bare. Jack sipped his whiskey and compared this vision to the Phryne he had held in his arms at the ball – black velvet and fur, red satin ribbons, and blood red lips.   Ribbons again, he noticed, but these looked easier, somehow, friendlier.

 

                  While he was thinking about the waltz, he ate a bit of his steak and closed his eyes in delight – perfection, of course.  His drink was cold, but the night still seemed a bit too warm. He looked around the party – Hugh was in shirtsleeves, Dottie and Jane were wearing light summer dresses, and here he was, all buttoned up and suffocating in his suit coat, waistcoat, and tie. Carefully setting aside his plate and tumbler, he stood up slowly and removed his suit coat. Only, it wasn’t slowly after all, because the rocking chair made him lurch forward a bit into the light, and Phryne turned, just then, to watch him take off his coat.  He could almost see her eyes glowing in the dark as she sauntered towards him, grinning devilishly.  “Make yourself at home, Inspector.”  She took his coat from him and tossed it, without looking, onto a nearby chair. “Let me help you with that tie.” Jack stepped back, hastily loosening his tie, on his own, and unbuttoning his top button.  He abandoned his earlier thought of removing his waistcoat. “Thank you, Miss Fisher. I believe I can manage.”

 

                  Dot and Hugh had gone for a walk, and Mr. Butler had gone to clear the decks in the kitchen. The music floating from the windows was the only chaperone.  Phryne and her whiskey perched on the table next to Jack, and she rested her arm along the top of the chair where he sat.  Her chin was in her hand, and she was counting the stars.  Jack could almost feel the heat from her body across the cooling night air between them.  “Have you ever been to Scotland, Jack?” she asked, as she curled her bare feet up under her legs. Jack swirled his whiskey and answered, “Only in my imagination.  You?” She nodded in the darkness. “It is so green, and so cool and damp, and the air smells so sweet.  I can guess how that poor Sandy felt, out on those dusty plains, with no way up or out that he could see.  And, then Laddie, the golden boy, gets a magical letter, complete with documentation and tickets for the passage. He couldn’t resist.  Then, against the odds, he walks into the ballroom and Hal recognizes him.” Jack nodded, too. He couldn’t approve of what Sandy had done, of course, but he remembered that level of desperation. He had felt it when he was in the trenches, when he would have sold his soul for a swim in a clean, clear highland loch. 

 

                  Jack looked over at Phryne, his red, red rose, his bonnie lass in sky blue linen, who had waltzed with him while he wore his grandfather’s kilt.  He raised his whiskey, and she raised hers. Eyes locked on each other, they drained their glasses in salute to their partnership. They had solved another crime, if not yet the puzzle that they were to each other.  For now they could sit back, together, and breathe in the peace to be found in the stars above them. 

 

                  But, not all night, and not forever, because here came Hugh, and Dot, laughing and holding hands as they returned from the beach.  Jack knew his cue.  He collected his coat, hat and overcoat, thanked Phryne and Dot for a lovely evening, and followed Hugh out the door.


End file.
